The
Material Remembers
The wall reached out excitedly to touch me with a careful
caress … then, the carpet and closet joined in for a chorus of hello. The windows whispered a greeting;
the kitchen vibrated from floor to ceiling as I passed by; all the particles of
the whole place appeared to come alive as if they wanted to embrace me in the
molecules of their own memory.
It had been 40 years since I lived there in that house. Not
much had changed, except me. Yet outwardly not a moment had elapsed since I had
lived there while I was still young, happy, clueless of my future, and content
with my cuddly cat, Frosty.
Yes, I saw Frosty there too. Everywhere. In the kitchen where
I gently stroked her fluffy fur with a wire brush each morning as she ate a
treat; by the front window where she sat patiently waiting for me, swishing her
tail to and fro; on the cool counter tops where she would jump up for a slice
of cheese; at the front door, daring not to go a step further than the
cushioned threshold. Every room held a flash of recall and those flashes
flooded through me with a passionate potency.
The material remembers.
I went back so I could remember – everything that happened
there – how I felt, what I heard, saw, smelled, all the senses remembering
everything unfolding as if it were happening all over again. I was back there
in time and saw all the events and things and people and details surrounding
events that occurred decades earlier.
Even more incredulous as I drove from Atlanta to Fort
Lauderdale, on my way to catch a cruise ship in Miami, was the premonition that
my old house would be for sale right now. How could I know that? I had a
certain thought and visualized a “for sale” sign out in the front yard. Certain
enough that I planned ahead to pretend to be a buyer and arrange to tour my old
place – before I had any inkling that my intention would pan out. Merely a pipe
dream to pass the time as I drove, idle thoughts to wile away endless
highway.
It wouldn’t hurt to drive by and have a look. I usually did
that anyway when I went back by Fort Lauderdale, just to see the house and
remember my life back then. There were favorite restaurants to stop and have a
bite, too.
When I lived there as a hopeful young lady, I had luscious
long hair and a trim slender figure. Always tanned and toned from lounging in
my backyard pool, my humble being yet unabated by lessons of a longer existence.
I laughed a lot, dated different men, and sipped life through a straw of sugar
coated experiences. I liked to dress up, go to disco bars, and float on a large
raft at the beach near Oakland Park Blvd. I shopped at the brand new Pompano
Fashion Square (so hip and cool back then), and bought boxes of Florida oranges
at one of those ubiquitous roadside fruit stands located across from the
shopping mall. On weekends I loved going to the largest flea market anywhere,
which took up 10 drive-in movie screen lots (remember those?!), and I started
collecting little things I loved, but didn’t need; an unfortunate habit.
Happy. I knew happy and didn’t know then that happy would
take a hiatus, even a permanent hike away from me forever. Maybe that’s part of
the reason I keep returning. To remember happy.
The blessings of bliss, covered in youthful carelessness,
dancing to the music soundtracks of mindful living. As a young lady on my own,
living in the moment didn’t require a conscious correction or Buddha-seeking
sojourns. Now came naturally, as it
often does before we hit the adult wall of worry.
Here I come again, I thought, after 40 years…. I turned down
the street, left off of Commercial Boulevard, and from afar saw the sign: FOR
SALE. Just as I had envisioned it. For
Sale. My heart skipped a small beat and my soul bowed in acknowledgement to
whatever source shows me the way – always.
Pulling into the circular driveway to stop and write the
agent’s phone number, a woman came out from the house and walked to my car with
a wave.
“Hi!” I greeted her. “Are you the agent?”
“No,” she said. “I’m the owner. How can I help you?”
“May I see the house?”
“Absolutely! I’d be delighted to show you around if you have
some time right now. It’s a beautiful home.”
I
already know that, I mused to myself…. I already know every nook and cranny of that house, but sure! Show me!
She babbled about this room or that view or new tiles, and I
tuned her out to sink into my own sensorial soliloquy and simply feel my way back to the way back.
The moment we walked in, inanimate objects reached for me,
each with their own tales to tell, each with a record long ago filed, but never
forgotten. I stood amazed at the details flooding into my mind and the scenes
replayed from every corner of every room.
Everywhere I looked I saw my furnishings, my pictures on the
walls, my things exactly where they once were.
I had orange and white fleecy furniture; very fashionable and
very Florida; hippie décor during hippie days. There was the night I cried on
the furry couch, because a boyfriend broke up with me. And the friend who
lounged in the sloped furry chair – over there….
In the bedroom I remembered the night my brother called the
police because I fell asleep and dropped the phone to the floor in the middle
of an apparently unimportant to me, late-night conversation. He didn’t know
what had happened and the police broke into my bedroom window to rescue me from my sweet dreams, scaring
me half to death with their noise and the bright flashlights. Funny now, in
recall, but frightening and embarrassing then. That’s the first memory that
popped into my mind when I peered into the same bedroom. That and then the clothes
that populated the side closet.
We walked into the backyard and there, under the bluest sky
and bright summer sun, beckoned my beautiful pool. Still the same
configuration, I noticed, still the same four steps at the shallow end and
still the very deep side with a diving platform – and still the pretty yard and
partitioned fence to separate nosy neighbors.
There’s
where I shot my first modeling job for Jordan Marsh, I
ruminated as I peered around the house to see the velveteen lawn still exactly
the same.
There’s
the patio where I played games with friends; there’s the pretty palms I
planted! Still there and look how tall they are!
We walked back through the house for a final glimpse of what
is now a $430,000 house. $430,000!? Once upon a time, it cost $69,000. If only
I’d known … if only we all knew now what we didn’t know when.
It sparked me to consider how remarkable and lovely it
remains; to learn that everything is and always will be still there for me. A
reflection of perfection from my past. I left a long time ago, but my house and
my beloved pet, Frosty, never left me. Not for a second.
The material remembers.
And so do I.
Just Another Lori Story
